Why Grandma Bought That Car... and Other Stories and Poems

By Anne R. Allen

Short stories and poems from humorist and rom-com mystery novelist Anne R. Allen.

Some stories, like "Vive La Revolution"--which first appeared in the edgy humor magazine Opium, are satire--and others are more heartfelt. But they are all humorous portraits of rebellious women at various stages of their lives.

From aging Betty Jo, who feels so invisible she contemplates robbing a bank, to neglected 10-year-old Maude, who turns to a fantasy Elvis for the love she's denied by her patrician family, to a bloodthirsty Valley Girl version of Madam Defarge, these women—young and old—are all rebelling against the stereotypes and traditional roles that hold them back.

Which is, of course, why Grandma bought that car…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kotu Beach Press
• Release date: Jun 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9788834138854

Book preview

Allen

Foreword

I often encourage new writers to concentrate on writing short fiction, both on my blog and in print. (My article titled  Short is the New Long appeared in Writer's Digest in November 2014.)

The e-age offers many opportunities to publish short fiction, in anthologies and stand-alone e-books as well as traditional print and online magazines.

I've written very few short works since I started to publish fiction. Instead I spent my writing apprenticeship composing unpublishable novels. Not something I recommend.

I'm offering a handful of my short stories here, most of which have been previously published, some, several times (which shows how versatile short fiction is). I have interspersed some of my poems and verses that have appeared in various literary journals and anthologies.

Some of the stories, like Vive La Revolution, which first appeared in the edgy humor magazine Opium, are satire, and others are more heartfelt, but they are all humorous portraits of rebellious females.

From aging Betty Jo, who feels so invisible she contemplates robbing a bank, to neglected 10-year-old Maude, who turns to a fantasy Elvis for the love she's denied by her patrician family, to a bloodthirsty teen version of Madam Defarge, these women are all rebelling against the stereotypes and traditional roles that hold them back.

Which is, of course, why Grandma bought that car...

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Anne R. Allen

Why Grandma Bought That Car

She dreamed of riding with Kerouac, with ToddandBuzz,

red-Corvetting down Route 66—

freedom in her hair.

But she got snagged on white-picket biology/destiny—

and the goofy smile that farmer gave her,

along with his fragile heart.

She loved that smile more than her own self, a full forty years—

till his heart broke for good and she buried him

in the root-clogged dirt of this old town.

But for her, the road’s still there.

and in this dream, she’s not riding;

she’s at the wheel.

Betty Jo Stevenson Rides Again

On the Monday morning after her silver wedding anniversary, Betty Jo Stevenson found a lump in her breast. She was taking her morning shower when she felt it—just a little thing—like a nasty pebble, stuck beneath the spongy layer of flesh of the underside of her left breast. Why hadn’t she noticed it before?

Fighting for breath, she turned off the water and felt for it again. There it was: a real lump. How long had it been there? She probably didn’t self-examine as often as she should. She’d never been able to get over the feeling that touching herself was a little naughty, and besides, she didn’t like to be reminded of the toll that fifty-two years of gravity had taken on her figure.

She stepped out of the tub still sudsy, cradling the heavy sack of her breast in her hand, keeping a finger on the lump. She needed to tell Bob, who was standing right there in his white jockey shorts, shaving, but she couldn’t think of the words. Had the light over the sink always been that bright? She almost had to squint to look at him.

Her mind filled with a ridiculous memory—that time in high school when the girls told her that bad-boy biker Frankie Russo had a picture of her in her cheerleading sweater taped inside his locker. Right next to the one of Raquel Welch in her cavegirl bikini.

Betty Boobs, he calls you, somebody said. Probably Lucinda. She always knew the nasty gossip, even then. You should do something. Don’t let him think you’re some biker slut.

But Betty Jo had kind of liked knowing that Frankie Russo thought she was some biker slut. Walking by his locker, she’d always felt tingly all over, and a little proud—the opposite of how she felt now, standing in the middle of the bathroom floor, dripping herbal-scented body wash from her lumpy breast, watching her husband of twenty-five years shave the grizzled stubble from his chin.

Would she ever feel tingly again?

Bob seemed to be talking to the mirror. ...my blue sport coat? It’s disappeared. I like to wear it with my Rotary tie. You know I have a Rotary breakfast this morning.

Lump, she said.

...why do things keep disappearing? Just when you get used to something, somebody decides it’s too old and they go and replace it. Bob rinsed his face and dried it with one of the new silver-trimmed towels his sister Audrey sent for their anniversary. White, with sparkly Lurex trim.

Betty Jo thought they were a little tacky.

I didn’t want to buy you real silver, Audrey wrote. You’d just spend the rest of your life polishing it.

The rest of her life. Betty Jo shivered. How long would that be?

See? She held out her pale breast to her husband, as if she could show him the dark horror growing inside.

...like old Ernie Moriarty, the night security guy at my building. Bob splashed on his Old Spice. "Nice guy. He’d been